


Something Doesn't Feel Right

by Saphruikan



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: "what the fuck is happening" feelings, Animal Transformation, Gen, just a dumb oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:05:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphruikan/pseuds/Saphruikan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't want you to see me. Your appearance has changed and . . . well, so has mine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Doesn't Feel Right

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a random oneshot I wrote while rewatching that trailer. Umph, that sonorous voice.

“. . . John?”

A groan. Then, “Sher . . . lock? Whurrr . . .”

“Now John, John, don’t move too much. I’m afraid you hit your head quite badly, judging by the angriness of that bump on the back of your head. How do you feel?”

John’s hands flew to his forehead as he groaned again, his temples throbbing and his ears ringing painfully. He was lying heavily on his back on something uneven and terribly uncomfortable, and rising to a sitting position was costing simultaneously a lesser and greater amount of effort than he was used to. On the one hand, he was tired and dizzy and felt like he’d just woken up from passing out, but on the other his body didn’t feel nearly the same amount of weight as it usually did. He felt . . . lighter. Smaller. 

He managed to accomplish the feat and blinked his squinted eyes open blearily, screwing up his face and trying to adjust to his surroundings. Last he’d checked he’d been in his bed at 221B. But now, it looked like he’d been lying for quite some time upon a great bed of what looked like golden coins and various other golden objects, and what a bed it was. He feebly tried to calculate just how much he was lying on and what it would be worth in pounds, but gave up immediately; there was enough of the stuff to fill a small mountain. All this lay within a great dark stone chamber big enough to put most coliseums to shame; large pillars of black rock with unrecognizable carvings held up the ceiling that looked hundreds of feet high. Intricate staircases made of carved marble laced their way up to uncountable tunnels midway up the walls.

John sat for a bit, taking it all in. Then he looked at himself. For some reason he was barefoot, and a muttered “Jesus Christ,” slipped out as he saw how big and hairy his feet were. “What the hell?” he mumbled, reaching down to touch them, wiggling his cumbersome toes, before feeling a tickling sensation about his neck and ears and reaching up to feel a fuzzy halo of long curly hair. He tugged at it, noting the darker and slightly reddish color than his native light brown. “What?” He was wearing some kind of ragged robe as well.

Then he looked wildly around. He was certain he’d heard Sherlock before, and surely his friend could deduce just what the hell was going on. “Sherlock?” he called, his voice echoing through the dark space. “Sherlock, are you there?”

There was a pause, and he was about to get up, before he heard, “I’m here, John.”

John nearly jumped; Sherlock’s voice was loud, booming, and somehow, impossibly, even deeper than usual. He sounded like he was doing an unconvincing monster impersonation, lowering his voice and adding a hissing undertone. 

“Hullo? Are you speaking through a microphone?” John called, trying to pinpoint the source; it sounded like it was coming out of a loudspeaker, and if it was, it was coming from the other side of a nearby pillar.

“No, John. This is just me.”

“Where the hell are we?” John asked, staggering to his feet; he braced himself for the gold coins to dig painfully into his soles, but he found that he could barely feel them, as though his feet were numb. He teetered, his arms splayed out for balance; something was _definitely_ off about his body, and it was bothering him that he couldn’t figure out what. He made his way as best he could to the pillar separating him from Sherlock. 

“Well, judging from the echo of our voices and the species of rock surrounding us, I’d say somewhere in the middle of a large mountain, lying on a bed of treasure.”

“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock, I got that,” John grunted, making his way around the pillar slowly but surely. “Damn, this thing is big. Where are you, exactly? I’m trying to find you.”

There was another pause, and then, “I don’t want you to see me.”

John stopped. “What? What, what do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to see me. Your appearance has changed and . . . well, so has mine.”

Was it just him, or did Sherlock sound nervous? John slumped in exasperation, panting. “Are you really going to do this? ‘Cause I’m _really_ not in the mood.”

“. . . All right,” Sherlock sighed, and John resumed his trek, before he heard a great rustling and the thudding, clinking sound of something heavy hitting the bed of coins, making him freeze, thinking Sherlock had fallen down, before it sounded again. And again.

A low snarl made him whirl around just in time to see a gigantic dark muzzle rounding the corner behind him; he saw teeth and tongue and scales and staggered backwards around the bend, uncomprehending. The great head followed him, a huge orange eye with a slit pupil locked upon him, until John stopped and backed against the wall. Its head alone was bigger than a semi, and John didn’t even want to know about the body it belonged to. It was horny and dry and covered in dark russet scales.

“Jeeesus Christ- _Sherlock!”_ he roared, turning to run. “Sherlock, run!”

A great foreleg slammed to the ground in front of him, and he heard bellowed, _“No, John, it’s me!”_ He screeched to a halt; the giant leathery paw was obviously from the same creature. He whirled back around, some hoarse gasping noise rushing out of his throat in fear.

The lips of the beast parted and its tongue flicked and throat vibrated, and he heard, “It’s me, John,” but he was having trouble connecting these two facts. “Sh-Sherlock?” he wheezed.

The head nodded quite deliberately and intoned, “Yes. It is . . . I.” And if John didn’t think a giant scaly head could look ashamed he thought so now.

“Oh,” John croaked, staring at the teeth. “Right, well . . .” He looked around weakly. “This is . . . interesting. So, uh, what are you, exactly?”

The beast’s – Sherlock’s – mouth opened for a second as it paused. “It appears I am a dragon,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“How do you know that?” John asked, almost politely, as if this was a deduction he wanted to understand.

A shadow fell over him, and John looked up. At first he didn’t understand why a huge flap of brown skin was hovering over him and the pillar, but then he realized it was a giant bat wing, which obviously belonged to Sherlock. It receded back out of sight as quickly as it’d come. “Oh. Of course,” said John. “Obvious.”

Sherlock’s now-orange eye stayed trained upon him as he grappled with everything he’d seen in these few short minutes. This was like a hallucination, a strange dream, but it felt so real. “You didn’t drug me again, did you?” he blurted out. 

The eye blinked slowly and the head shook ever so slightly. John nodded sarcastically, starting to pace back and forth. “You have an alarming amount of hair on your head and feet, John,” Sherlock said. “Is this why you always wear long socks? Though I don’t recall them being quite that size.”

“Sherlock, really? This is not a funny situation. This-“ He gestured widely at Sherlock. –“is not funny. We don’t know where the hell we are, _what_ we are, or who took us here. So it would be _great,_ really _spectacular,_ if you didn’t make jokes.”

“I think you should try and remain calm.”

“I think you should look in a mirror! Your cheekbones are even bigger than usual!” John snapped, and resumed pacing. 

A low jumpy rumble issued from Sherlock’s colossal throat, and John realized he was chuckling. He realized belatedly what he’d just said and snorted himself, then kicked himself for laughing. “Seriously, Sherlock. We’ve got to figure this out and get you back to normal. Your _head_ can’t even fit in our flat anymore, and I don’t want to have to find another flatmate. Even if he does clean up after himself.”

“Your loyalty is touching,” Sherlock said dryly, and John stepped back as he raised his head and withdrew it out of sight. John still couldn’t get over the magnitude of such a creature; Sherlock could now eat elephants in one bite, a sentence he never thought he would ever think to himself. He heard Sherlock call him and toddled over to where he was.

It was too dark to see Sherlock’s entire reptilian body, but he could tell it was enormous, and tried to imagine sitting across from it at the kitchen table as it experimented on eyeballs and prattled on about the rarity of a certain type of disease that affected its coloration or something. Of course Sherlock would turn into a dragon, something huge and mythical, pompous git that he was; he was far too vain to settle for anything more ordinary, even if he hadn’t a choice in the matter. 

Sherlock’s head was pointed in the direction of a tunnel atop a flight of marble stairs. It was perched at the end of a long and sinuous neck that disappeared into shadow. “See if you can climb out of here,” he said, swinging round to look at John. “Take notice of the types of trees you might see and the height of the mountain. I should be able to deduce our location from there- ah-“ He nosed around his neck in what seemed like a sad manner. “God, I wish I had my phone,” he hissed. 

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to suffer without it,” John grunted, trying to tackle the stairs as gracefully as he could without slipping on wayward coins. He glanced up at Sherlock and then away, unable to hide a giggle.

“What? What is it?”

“Just trying to imagine you in curls and a scarf,” said John. “First you fake your death, now this.”

“Who was it again that said this was a completely unfunny situation?”

“Stings, doesn’t it?” John said.

“Bullying a dragon isn’t a good idea, John. I _can_ swallow you whole.”

“You wouldn’t. You can’t afford the flat by yourself.” John finally reached the top of the stairs and peered into the tunnel; it was faintly lit, but by what he couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t see the end. “All right, stay put. I’ll be back.”

“Give a shout if you need help,” Sherlock told him.

“What are you going to do, roar pointlessly? You can’t fit out of here.”

He hurried into the tunnel, pretending he couldn’t hear the miffed, “I’ll figure something out.”


End file.
